


The Boy In Wycome

by GeekyRoleplayer



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Multi, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition, This switches between the past and present, a handsome stranger trope, features Original lavellan members and other Original characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28330026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekyRoleplayer/pseuds/GeekyRoleplayer
Summary: On the brink of leaving everything behind due to the announcement of his arranged marriage, Mahvir Lavellan flees into the  near city of Wycome, where he meets a boy and has an adventure of a lifetime.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Kudos: 2





	The Boy In Wycome

**Author's Note:**

> Some words from Project Elvhen - https://archiveofourown.org/series/229061
> 
> Just a few, like greetings and such.

The Herald’s rest was filled to the brim with a burst of rambunctious laughter. Its occupants were either incredibly drunk or in too high of spirits to care for all the noise they were making. 

The Inquisition’s inner circle was sitting around a table, regaling each other with tales from their pasts. The resident story-teller had just finished, and as he basked in the joyous response from his friends, he leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the table. “And that is why the Hawke twins are never allowed back on the Arling’s property.” 

“Maker’s breath!” Their commander exclaims, “It is a miracle the order never caught wind of how much trouble the lot of you actually got into.” 

“By a miracle, I think you mean, Aveline always cleaning up our messes. Really Curly, you should be thanking her.” 

Cullen offers the dwarf a soft roll of his eyes before taking a sip from his tankard. “I’ll be sure to write her a letter.” 

The laughter gradually subsided and the sounds of coins being rustled and playing cards being reshuffled took up the silence. Varric speaks again, to keep the good mood going. “What about you Crasher, we hardly know anything about your childhood.”

Across the table, the Inquisitor was curled up against his lover’s side. His face burrowed against Dorian’s shoulder, as he hugged onto the mage’s arm. “I doubt the life of a Dalish would interest you all, we hardly had time for grand adventures or daring escapades.” 

“That’s not entirely true.” Ellana protests from her seat beside Cullen. 

“Daisy was a Dalish, and she had a knack for getting into trouble,” Varric adds, and he grins when all the others at the table turn expectant gazes upon the Inquisitor. 

Mahvir sighs heavily, not in annoyance, he had simply started to fall asleep amongst the company of his friends and a warm fire. “Very well,” he says, raising his head to wake himself up, “but you all must promise not to view me differently after hearing this story.” 

“Oh?” Dorian tuts, “What kind of mischief were you getting yourself into, Amatus?” 

“The kind that should have gotten my head on a pike. As it is though, I can look back on it with a bit of fondness. So, this is my coming out story, and the tale of my first love.”

***

The first warm breezes of the season had just started to blow in from the North, past the Tevinter Imperium, and into the Free Marches. Mahvir had always loved the spring from a young age and now was no different, even as he helped carry bundles of wildflowers into the clearing of his camp. Spirits were high that day, as everyone worked to prepare for the arrival of a second clan to the region. His older sister was to be married in just a few days, and he had to help with the preparations. Even at sixteen, Mahvir had been a hopeless romantic, and he had spent countless nights beside the fire with his mother. Watching as she sewed her oldest child’s ceremonial dress by hand. As she worked, she’d regale him with tales as old as Elven’nan, and he fell more in love with the _idea_ of love by the day. 

It was for this reason that he should have been excited to be pulled away from his duties by his clan’s keeper. He should have been thrilled by her words, but in reality, they simply left a hollow ache in his chest. 

Mahvir had just let out a soft sneeze, the pollen from the flowers in his arms tickling his nose. His long hair was tied into a messy braid, and he was all too content with the spring sun tanning his already freckled skin. Completely at peace within his home in the woods, he glances up with warmth in his eyes, as the Keeper calls his name. 

He passes off the bundle of wildflowers to another elf, snagging one to tuck behind his ear, a beautiful specimen of Crystal Grace, before speeding off in the direction of their leader’s Aravel. “ _On dhea,”_ he greets, “How can I help you?” 

Deshanna, a woman who had been leading her clan for many years now, returns his kind smile. “Da’len, I don’t mean to interrupt you, but I have some exciting news.” She motions for him to sit with her upon a few stones that had been rolled over for the use of chairs. 

“Oh?” Mahvir does as he is told, and sits down with one leg crossed over the other. “Does the rest of the clan know?” 

“Your parents do, certainly!” Deshanna carries on with a cheerful note in her voice. She sits across from him and motions to the ongoings of the camp around them. “As you know, It is the duty of the Dalish to carry on the traditions of our ancestors. Your elder sister is helping to do that by joining with Aren, and with Mythal’s blessing, they’ll bring children to carry on our legacy.” 

The excitement that had been running through his own veins begins to die, and due to a lack of something better to say, he manages an encouraging “Yes?” 

“It is about time that you were paired off with a nice Dalish girl of your own. I realize that you are still an apprentice, and so is she, but the next two years will give you plenty of time to bond with one another.” 

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, Keeper.” Mahvir finds himself interjecting, “but what if I don’t want to be wed?” 

“Nonsense, Mahvir! It is your duty to the Clan to keep us strong, and I see how you are with the younger children. You will make a wonderful father when the time comes.” 

The dread that had settled within the pit of his stomach was now turning into knots, and despite his own wishes, he did not wish to be a disappointment to his people. He had made a lousy hunter, and an even terrible weaponsmith, so the least he could do was try and be a good husband to a poor Dalish girl who likely didn’t wish to be married to him either. “If it is to be my duty, I will endure for the sake of the clan.” 

“Cheer up my dear boy, your parents and I believe you will love Shivana. She shares your talent for raising the spirits of her fellow elves. As you play the lute she plays the lyre, and she is easy on the eyes as well.” 

‘ _It is a pity she isn’t a man, then._ ’ He wanted to say, but the words die on his tongue. “I am lucky to have her as a partner, Keeper, I treasure the chance to meet her.” 

“I am happy to hear it!” Deshanna exclaims, her blue eyes twinkling with excitement, “She is also from Aren’s clan, and will be arriving with them tomorrow to meet you.”

“Tomorrow?” He thought he might toss up his breakfast. 

“Yes! So be sure you’re looking your best, I believe your mother already has an outfit in mind.” 

“Marvelous.” 

“You’re looking a little pale, Mahvir. There is no reason to be nervous.” 

“Nervous, yes, that’s it.” The young warrior pushes himself back to his feet and busies himself with tugging on the edge of his braid. An anxious habit of twirling his hair between his fingers. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go prepare myself for tomorrow.” 

“By all means,” she bids him farewell with a smile, “You are doing this clan proud, Da'len.” 

***

“I never knew you were arranged to be married!” Ellana exclaims from across the table, as Mahvir pauses in his tale to take a long drink from his glass of wine. 

“You were just a babe at the time,” he answers. 

“Still!” She continues, “To Shivana of all people? She could have ripped your head clean off, did Ryland know this story?” 

Mahvir makes a face, and it only sours more when Dorian pipes up, “Ryland was your lover before you joined the Inquisition was he not? The one who _still_ sends you letters?” 

A chorus of chatter ripples throughout the rest of his companions with this bit of information. “Was this Ryland the first love that you spoke of?” Josephine inquires. 

Mahvir stared down at his hands, one that was resting in his lap now, while the other had come to grasp Dorian’s thigh beneath the table. “No, I first met him during my sister’s wedding celebration, but we wouldn’t become a couple for a few more years.” 

“Damn boss,” The Iron Bull chortles, “I didn’t realize you had a history.”

“Are you all done teasing me, or do you not want to hear the rest of this story?” 

“Right!” Varric shouts, “Everyone stop making the poor man blush, and let him finish.”

Dorian chuckles and leans back in his chair to wave towards Cabot behind the bar. “I do believe our beloved Inquisitor is in need of a refill.” 

***

  
  


Later that evening, Mahvir had just returned from patrolling the perimeter of his Clan’s camp. He had needed the time to clear his head and to calm his rattled nerves. By this time, the sun had just started to set, and it cast a pool of orange light upon his family’s Aravel. His sister was off, praying at an altar for the Gods to bless her upcoming union, while his father and mother were working diligently on their daily task. 

His father was carving away at a piece of ironbark, crafting it into a sturdy hunter’s bow, while his mother was putting finishing touches to her daughter’s dress. “Ah, _Ma’hallian!”_ His mother looks up to greet him when she hears him approach. 

Mariel was a kind woman who knew more about generosity than most people in Thedas. She would gladly give the clothes from her back if it meant keeping another from going cold throughout the long northern nights. Once a free-spirit and fine hunter, she was now wizened with age. Streaks of grey fell in soft waves amongst her brunette hair, and her amber eyes, as bright as the now setting sun, smoldered with love as she acknowledged her youngest child. 

“ _Mamae,”_ Mahvir finds himself answering meekly, laying his sword to rest upon the grass, as he leans against his father’s workshopping table. “Have you almost finished her dress?” 

“Yes!” Mariel too was swept up in the excitement of the upcoming wedding. “Which reminds me, I have your outfit for tomorrow just here.” She lays the dress to rest upon her lap, and she turns to pick up a bundle of cloth from the ground. The aforementioned outfit was protected from the elements by a blanket, but when she offered it to Mahvir, he could only marvel at its craftsmanship. 

A fine suit made of gold and emerald cloth, the colors seemed to be specifically chosen to bring out his eyes and highlight his dalish heritage. It was embroidered with swirling patterns that reminded him of the vallaslin, and it was stitched together in a particular way, one that told him his mother had done it in her free time. “Where did you get this fabric?” He murmurs, gently running his calloused hands over the soft material. 

“The local market,” Mariel answers, smiling to herself at her son’s positive reaction. “Humans may lack the ability to make a proper garment, but they do have an eye for beautiful things.” 

“Sod that,” His father’s voice breaks through the conversation. “The _shemlen_ wouldn’t know beauty if it kicked them in the face. Otherwise, they wouldn’t dare to discrete the lands that belonged to our people.” 

Toren was a conservative man that believed the Dalish were entitled to half the land in Thedas. Perhaps he wasn’t wrong, but he lacked the ability to wish for a progressive future for the elves, and instead, he longed for the greatness they once held in the past. He had learned the ways of the weaponsmith many years ago and never looked back, for he did not value change. He had a distaste for the city elves and claimed that interacting with humans always left a bitter taste in his mouth. For all of his faults, however, he was an honest man who cared for his clan beyond all else. 

Toren had just now cared to glance up from his carving, and he scowls. “What’s that behind your ear boy? You can’t have such pansy things as that when Shivana arrives tomorrow.” 

Mahvir had forgotten about the crystal grace he’d tucked behind his ear that morning, and in shame, he quickly ripped it away and held it’s now crumpled blue petals within the palm of one hand. “Apologies Babae, I had helped gather the decorations this morning.”

“Aye,” his father grunts in response, averting his gaze away from Mahvir and returning it to his work. “We should see about cutting that hair of yours too, it’s getting long.” 

“I like my hair.” 

“You’re a warrior, aren’t you? It’s impractical, and could be used against you in battle.” 

Without the energy to argue, Mahvir simply takes in a deep breath and complies. “As you wish, Babae,” He lets the crumpled flower fall to his feet, before offering his formal suit back to his mother. “It is beautiful Mamae, thank you for making it for me.” 

“Anytime my darling, now, go get washed up before supper.” 

***

“Oh, Amatus.” Dorian had interrupted the story to coo into the Inquisitor’s ear, gently running his fingers through the elf’s hair as if he was imagining Mahvir chopping such an important piece of himself off just to appease his father. “I didn’t mean to make light of the situation, I ran away from my arranged marriage, practically left the poor girl at the altar.” 

“I wish I’d had your bravery,” Mahvir murmurs back, turning his head to press a kiss against the mage’s cheek. “Perhaps I would have avoided getting myself into so much trouble.” 

“I wouldn’t call it bravery,” his lover protested, “but I thank you for thinking so highly of me.” 

“But surely you must have done something,” Cassandra interrupts them, “You did not marry this Shivana woman?” 

“No, I didn’t,” Mahvir answers, “For the next morning…”

***

The next morning, Mahvir was staring at his reflection in a bowl of water. His mother was sweeping the floor of their Aravel, clearing out his recently cut hair from their traveling home. He tugs lamely at the strands that now only hung to his chin before reaching out for a ribbon to tie half of it up, so it would no longer frame his face. At once he missed his signature braid, but his father was right, he needed to look his best. 

His suit was also tighter than he would have liked, but he was sure that must have been done on purpose. It made him look slimmer in the waist, but also broader in the shoulders, as every stitch was brought in to squeeze against his lithe frame. He was tugging on the collar when his mother finally set the broom aside and returned to continue fussing over him. 

“I know it isn’t a perfect fit but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to show off your warrior’s physique. Which reminds me, how are you feeling?” 

“I’m okay Mamae, you don’t have to worry.” 

“Are you sure?” She presses, “No aches or pains? What about exhaustion? I’m sure Deshanna wouldn’t mind making you a potion before the festivities begin?” 

“I don’t want to waste her time,” Mahvir insists, “Besides, won’t my… condition make me a less desirable partner? We should do our best not to mention it.” 

“It is nothing to be insecure about, Ma’hallian, you are one of our clan’s strongest fighters, despite your muscle weakness. That is something to be proud of.” 

“So I can do the same as everyone else in the clan, that’s hardly anything to gloat about.” The young elf draws away from his mother’s side, to put some distance between himself and her doting. “What are my duties for today?” 

“To stand there and look pretty.” She tells him, “I know you are hesitant about meeting Shivana, but she is a lovely young woman and I think she’ll make a great match for you.” 

“And what if she’s not?”

Mariel frowns, but it only lasts for a moment. “Just give her a chance, won’t you? Go, join your sister outside.” 

Outside of his family’s Aravel, morning dew still hung to the grass as the Halla grazed, and the younger children ran about the camp, dirtying up their clothes that were meant to be kept clean for the upcoming festivities. 

Mahvir finds his sister standing beside the main fire pit, busying herself with nothing, save for scrutinizing the decoration choices of her fellow clanmates. Her light brown hair was pulled up into a neat bun, and she was clothed in a lilac dress, as soft as silk. It rustled in the soft breeze, as she clasped at the betrothal amulet that had not left her neck in months. 

She was so focused, that she had not heard him approach, and she startled as he greeted her. 

“Good morning Arielle,” he says, “waiting for Aren, are you?” 

“And you, brother? I hear you are to be betrothed.” 

“Yes. Apologies for that, I didn’t mean to hijack your wedding.” 

“That’s alright.” Arielle turns to appraise him and her large brown eyes sweep over his appearance. “I know you would rather be doing anything else.” As she speaks, she reaches out to brush at his hair with a gentle hand. “Why did you cut it?” 

“It was Babae’s idea, he thought my long hair to be impractical.” 

“He is just a hard-ass,” She huffs, “I have long hair and I make a fine hunter.” 

Mahvir sighs heavily, “I was rather fond of it, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.” 

“It will grow back.” Arielle consoles him, before addressing what was really bothering her. “Will you be able to do this, marrying a woman?” 

“I have no choice. It is my duty to the clan.”

“You do have a choice.” She insists, “you just have to be brave enough to make it.” 

The truth hurt him to hear, as he knew himself to be a token push-over and a people pleaser. ‘ _The clan needs this from me,’_ he thinks to himself, _‘how can I deny them of it?’_ He was a breath away from speaking these concerns out loud when he heard shouting from the entrance of the camp. Aren had arrived with his small company of clan members, including his parents, his clan’s first, a handful of hunters, a pair of elders, and Shivana. 

Arielle rushes forward to meet her betrothed, and Aren wastes no time in gathering her in his arms and lifting her off the ground. It was a rather joyous reunion, and Mahvir was happy to see his elder sibling in the midst of finding her true love. The joy of romance quickly died when he thought of himself, however, as he caught the gaze of the woman who was meant to one day be his wife. 

Shivana was not a soft woman, even during a time of peace she carried a dagger at her hip, and her attire was made for practicality, not appearance. It made Mahvir feel silly for not wearing his traditional huntsman’s garb, but she seemed to pay little mind to the way he stiffly walked within his suit. Her hair was as dark as the night sky, as long as his had once been, and her eyes were an entrancing shade of violet. She did not yet have her Vallaslin either, but he could already imagine the sprawling imagery of Andruil overtaking the girl’s expression. Decorating her skin in rich purple ink. 

Mahvir bows slowly to her, and she returns the gesture before offering him her hand. He takes it and brings it to his lips to leave a soft kiss against her knuckles. He notices faint scars there as he does so, likely from a series of failed knife tricks. “ _An’daran Atish’an,_ Welcome to clan Lavellan.” 

“ _Ma Serannas,_ that is very kind.” Shivana answers and her voice is higher, sweeter than Mahvir had expected. They stand in silence for a moment, awkward, until she prompts him. “Show me around your camp?” 

They walk together for a while, arm-in-arm, and eventually find a rhythm when the topic of music is brought up. They speak of their favorite lullabies and old songs. While Mahvir enjoyed singing tales of romance and adventure, she enjoyed the more upbeat tales, belonging to victories and valor. 

Neither of them was a bard by any means, but they shared a mutual appreciation for the arts, and in that they found friendship. By the end of the night, they had even sat down beside the fire to serenade their feasting clanmates. While he had not wanted to marry Shivana, he found himself wondering if he could be content with her as a partner, if not happy. 

***

“You would have been very unhappy, had you married her as your Keeper wanted.” This was Cole speaking now, the young man was leaning against the table, his head propped up by both of his hands. Like the others, he seemed to be enraptured by the story, but his blue eyes glistened with a deeper understanding that only his compassion could provide. 

“Yes, I would have.” Mahvir agrees. He had finished the refill Dorian had ordered for him previously, and he had to concentrate in order to not lose track of his own story’s progression. “It was actually Ellana who would nudge me away from this prospect of marriage, altogether.” 

The blonde elf perks up from where she was sitting, absently picking up a few coins and then rearranging them into color-coordinated piles. “You’re welcome, but how did I do that?” 

Mahvir smiles, as if this particular memory was his fondest, “You crawled into my lap to get closer to the music.” 

***

They had sung together and provided entertainment for the others until constellations breached the sky. Shivana had taken a break to enjoy her meal and was now chatting admirably with one of her fellow hunters, who Mahvir had overheard being called Ryland. 

Ryland, was a person who radiated energy, something that Mahvir couldn’t hope to match, as he listened to the other elf prattle on about a bit of gossip from their own clan. He did have a fetching pair of blue eyes, though, and Mahvir had to busy himself with strumming his lute, to keep from staring at the other boy too intensely. 

Amidst his mindless playing, he had not noticed the approach of a younger elf, who was not more than four years of age. Ellana belonged to another family within Clan Lavellan, and it wasn’t rare for her to seek out Mahvir in hopes of companionship. She had trouble connecting with some of the other children her age and Mahvir always gave her the light of day, even when her own parents would not. 

It was for these reasons that he shouldn’t have been surprised when her small hand found his arm and ceased his playing for a moment. “Ah, Da’len,” he says to her, “Do you want to play too?” 

“I can’t do that.” She responds, “I don’t know how.” 

Despite her words, he passes her the instrument, and she fumbles with it, as it was much too large for her to play properly. She tries a few more times to grasp it properly, before seemingly giving up, and crawling over to sit upon his knee instead. “You play, I’ll listen.” She tells him, and Mahvir reaches out to pick up the lute that she’d left in the dirt. 

He dusts it off with the back of his sleeve, and resumes his playing, humming a few chords, and smiling to himself when she begins to sing along to the familiar lullaby, while she couldn’t harmonize with his own voice, it was endearing all the same. 

Minutes go by like this, Mahvir minding his own as the babble of his clanmates fade into the background of his thoughts. Or they were, at least, until he reached the end of the lullaby he was currently playing and realized that all the conversation around him had ceased entirely. He glances up, to realize that dozens of eyes had fallen upon him. 

His hand freezes on the strings, and he does his best to ignore the throbbing ache that had started in his fingers and was now moving up his arm at a steady rate. “Have I done something wrong?"

“Of course not, darling,” Mariel is the first to answer him, “we were just admiring your playing.” 

“Oh. Well, I’m humbled by having such a kind audience.” 

“Listen to those manners!” One of the elders from Aren’s clan pipes up. 

“Such a gentle lad and he has a way with children too! He will make a fine parent in his own time.” The other chatters on, effortlessly. 

Mahvir offers them both a meager smile, but he was now altogether restless. He was not opposed to the idea of children, in fact, a family of his own was something that he wanted in the future, but not in this way. What child deserved parents who only tolerated each other at best? He could continue to be complacent, to continue to act as if he was okay with this arrangement, but he knew that no romantic feelings would ever mutually grow between him and Shivana, no matter how hard he tried, and that wasn’t fair to her. 

From across the fire, Arielle catches his eye, and sympathy smoldered in her gaze, mingling with the reflection of the flames. She knew him best, and could undoubtedly read his inner-turmoil like an open book, as she snags the immediate attention away from him as she clears her throat. 

“Excuse me, everyone? I would like to give a toast, to the union of our two clans, and to my upcoming marriage. I couldn’t be happier.” 

***

"Your elder sister seems very kind," Josephine remarks, with a gaze that was twinkling with intrigue. 

"She is, but she has hardened with age." 

"How old would her daughter be now?" Ellana interjects. "She was just a newborn when I left the clan." 

"Nellie is six now, I've been told that she has a way with the halla."

“That’s wonderful, the clan will be lucky to have a caretaker for the herd in the years to come.”

The Inquisitor sighs with this talk and he can no longer blame the pitch and roll of his stomach on the alcohol he’d consumed. “I must admit all this story-telling is making me homesick. I don’t suppose we can pick this up another time?”

Josephine turns in her chair to stare out the window, the moon hung full in the otherwise clear sky. “It has gotten rather late, perhaps we should all try to get some rest.” 

“Not me.” The commander says, rising from his chair in a flourish of creaking metal. “There is a mound of paperwork on my desk that needs tending too.”

“You have a lover who needs tending too.” Ellana corrects the man, rising from her seat in his stead and grasping at his arm to keep him from making a quick escape. “I do want to hear the rest of this story, Mahvir.” 

“I’ll be sure not to leave you all in suspense.” He answers, feeling fingers gliding against the palm of his hand. He intertwines them with his own and feels just a tad bit better. “Rest well, my friends.”


End file.
